Rut
by CardioQueen
Summary: Cristina and Burke. Still the only thing I write. Second person POV from both perspectives. Thank you for reading.


You wonder how you got to this place that you're in now. You spend most of the time wondering how you can get the hell out of it.

You've heard of this place before, you've heard people call it a rut. You were just sure that you'd never been in one. Ruts were for people who didn't fall in love, didn't care about heartbreak and heartache and heart-whatever-else-it-did-when-you-got-left-at-a-church-in-a-stupid-fucking-wedding-dress.

It's been suggested several times that you pick up a one night stand, and it's not for lack of trying. You've trolled around Joe's, looking at the various selections. You've even accepted drinks, maybe talked a little, maybe tossed a couple of darts. But when it came time to go home, you (falsely) accepted their proposal to get together again later and halfheartedly scribbled their number down on a piece of paper that made it's way to the trash on the way out the door.

They're just not _him_. They're never going to be him.

And that's why, Cristina Yang, you are in a rut.

Nobody will ever be as good as him. Nobody can kiss the way he kissed. Nobody knows the things you like in bed (since you are just a little bit of a freak), and you don't want to take the time to teach them. So what's the point of a one night stand if it isn't going to be good for you? Face it, nobody is as big as he was anyway. You'd end up with some shriveled guy who wouldn't know what to do with a vagina if it provided verbal instruction and it would only make matters worse.

You're better off with a vibrator and thinking all the dirty things that you want to think. About _him._

You don't know why you think about _him_ though. He _is_ the guy who left you in a church. He _is_ the guy who didn't understand the meaning of slowing down. _He_ is the reason you're in a rut. Him.

Burke.

But then you think his name and you melt and you feel like a powerless little girl, locked up in the hardened shell of a woman who knows better. _He_ was the first man you ever truly loved. Who you cared enough for to actually marry, to actually commit to. _He_ had become a necessity in your life. Even if it felt like some days, he was more of a necessary evil. Now that you don't have him though, you wonder if you would've thought those things if you had known what would happen.

You want to blame his absence solely on him, but you know that partially it was your fault too- you didn't tell him that you were happy. You didn't fight him hard enough when he was trying to walk out on you.

You changed. Just for him, you changed and tried to be this person that you never wanted to be.

He would've loved you if you hadn't changed, and you know that. He would've been frustrated and there would've been an argument, but he'd still be here. He'd still love you. And you wouldn't be in a rut.

Some nights, you make believe that he's coming back. That you could simply call him, he'll answer his phone and jump at the opportunity to return when you offer it.

But you won't call him, because you hate being rejected.

And this- this is why you'll stay in your rut. You're holding onto the past. You're in love with a man that you only pretend to hate. You're pining over a man you're afraid of rejecting you.

At least you have surgery to fall back on, right?

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You've been in a rut since you left her. You're fine with it. There's nobody else that you need or want. Not like you needed her.

It's your own fault really, that you're sitting in an empty apartment that will feel forever foreign. You pushed and you pulled, you pulled and you pushed. You got your way and you knew she didn't want it. The only real problem was that you chickened out.

If you would've just gone through with the damn thing you could've made up for it in marriage. You would've given her everything she wanted and maybe a little of what she didn't. Every once in a while you would've bought her expensive jewelry that you knew she wouldn't wear, or bring home flowers that she'd smell with a wrinkled nose. Just to express how much you think about her, how much you care for her.

You should have just accepted her for who she was, you pompous jackass. You should have given her more time. You should have done a lot of things differently. She was rare and special. She was perfect for you and you threw it away because you had to have things your way.

You're pretty sure that you haven't ever felt as stupid as you do now.

There aren't any other women in the picture. You can't handle the thought of it. You are convinced that you were made for more than each other in one way. She brought something out in you that wasn't there before. Her body fit perfectly against yours. You fit perfectly inside her. Everything about being with her was perfect.

It was all painfully perfect.

With that thought, you finish a glass of scotch.

You've surrounded yourself with creature comforts. You've already made your bed and you're going to lie in it. You'll die alone without children or a wife. The only mourners you'll have will be medical students who looked up to your speedy surgery times and your mastery of complicated sutures.

You know that you don't deserve anything better than that.

It's crossed your mind to call her. You know exactly where she is. She wouldn't have left the apartment. She'd try to convince herself that she could, hell, she probably even put up an ad for it. She probably sleeps at Meredith's more than she does at the apartment, but she just won't let go of it.

You know that you'd have a chance if you just call her. But what you can't take is the prospect of you not having a chance with her. Of finding out that she's moved on and happy.

That is what you wanted for her, isn't it? You set her free so she could be happy. You were so goddamn sure that you weren't doing it yourself because she wasn't proclaiming to the world that she was marrying you. She wasn't wearing your oversized diamond ring and she wasn't planning a wedding with the joy of ten-thousand brides-to-be.

Of course she fucking wasn't, she was Cristina. That's why you loved her, you fucking fool.

With that thought, you poor another glass of scotch.

It's the only thing that numbs the pain because you're in a rut. And you know as you bring the burning liquid to your lips that there's only one other place you'd rather be than in this rut.

You're just afraid that she doesn't want to be there with you.


End file.
